


True to Life

by Catchclaw



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bottom Bruce Wayne, Dreams, M/M, Pining, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 11:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17917979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: He dreams of being bound, immobilized by a man with red, glowing eyes.





	True to Life

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Watched Batman vs. Superman last night, for some reason.

He dreams of being bound, immobilized by a man with red, glowing eyes.

No, not a man. By a god who fell from the sky.

He dreams of the Kryptonian’s hands on him; not to bruise or to break, but to stroke and cup and caress. His own are secured, lost somewhere above his head, and his legs are pinned, too, tied at the ankle to the edges of the bed.

And it’s always a bed he’s tied to. Always.

His back is bent, his eyes half-open, every cell in his body a blaze, and the Kryptonian’s smiling at him, in his dreams, red eyes fading like fire dimmed into dark, soft shadows in which he can see himself reflected, not straining now, no, but arching, craning, doing all that he can to get more of that wonderful touch.

“Ask me,” the Kryptonian whispers. “Ask me for what you want, Bruce. I'll give it to you. But you have to ask.”

What he wants is impossible. What he wants is wicked and wrong. What he wants, the mere thought of it, the creature’s suggestion, makes his cock drip and his hips strain from the mattress, mindless, waiting.

“Ask. Ask me.”

In his dreams, he opens his mouth, he always does, at last ready to let out his plea, but no words come, no sounds.

“Bruce.” The Kryptonian’s hand on his face, tracing, that S on his chest glowing sudden and stark in the dark. “Please.”

And this is when he wakes, when his eyes fly open and his body twists on the bed, his cock hard and his face burning, burning, as if the god himself has peered deep into his soul. The blackout curtains are drawn and it’s day as likely as night and he’ll touch himself, reluctant at first, ashamed, but the fingers of the dream will still be with him, that feeling of being at the Kryptonian’s mercy, of being unable to move, of knowing only the stroke of those beautiful, impossible hands, and when he comes, his whole body will hum as if his skin’s been licked by lightning and he’ll see those eyes then, glowing, not with fire or the desire to burn but with a need that makes his whole body shake.

“Next time,” he’ll imagine he can hear in his ear, that powerful voice no more than a whisper. “Next time all you have to do is ask, Bruce, and I’ll let you have.”

 

*****

 

The dreams don’t stop when he meets Clark, when he starts to get to know the god as a man. They get more vivid, that’s all. More true to life.

He dreams of a victory sliding into something more; a foe vanquished, the world safe, an urgent kiss that spins into a dozen and ends in Bruce’s bed.

He dreams of hearing himself say it, the weight of each word in his mouth: “Hold me down.”

“Hold you--what?”

In this dream, Bruce flushes. The embarrassment only makes him feel hotter. “Use your weight on me. Your strength. I want to feel it.”

Clark blinks. His hair’s tumbled free and his mouth is gorgeous, open and stupidly wet. “Bruce,” he says. “I don’t understand. Why would you want that?”

“Yes, you do,” Bruce says, the words coming out snarl. “Jesus christ, Clark.” He lifts his arms over his head and crosses his wrists, spreads his legs until Clark falls between them. “I shouldn’t have to spell this out.”

Clark’s breathing harder now. Bruce can feel how stiff he is, how much Clark wants him, that big cock brushing his own. “I--god. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please.” It should be humiliating, to hear himself beg; in this dream, it isn’t. “I know you won’t hurt me. I know that. I trust you, fuck. _Please_.”

Clark kisses him, a fevered, dirty rush. He’s shaking. They both are. “You want me to hold you down.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to make you take it? Whatever I decide I’m gonna do with you?”

There are tears on Bruce’s face, saltwater mixing with sweat. “ _Yes_.”

Clark’s hands on his wrists, his body a sudden steel bow, but his voice is soft, dry leaves on warm, October grass. “Good,” he murmurs, drawing the word over Bruce’s cheek. “I can do that.”

In this dream, he comes with Clark’s tongue in his ass, those big hands holding open his thighs, his face mashed into the pillow, his throat caught in a scream. Then Clark’s bent over him, his chest pressed to Bruce’s back, and there’s nowhere for him to go, no place to get away. There’s sure as hell no coming back.

He’s speared open, he’s full, and Clark is murmuring into his ear, sweet nonsense like cotton candy that makes him twitch, makes him writhe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Clark says. “I love you like this, spread out and greedy for my cock.”

He’s touching himself, jerking his dick in time with Clark’s thrusts, and the bed is quaking; the windows, the door, the very joint of the floor. He tries to speak, tries to summon something coherent, but Clark is fucking the sense out of him, every last shred of logic, every hint of rational thought.

“Yes,” Clark says in this dream, hungry, hungry and heated and proud. “That’s right. You’re mine, Bruce. All you have to do is say it. You're mine, aren't you?”

He opens his mouth, gets out: “I want to be.”

When he wakes, the sheets are wet and his hips are still grinding, shoving his cock into the soft folds of his bed. His face is red and he can’t fucking stand it, how hot he is still, just from those last flickered images; how dirty he feels.

“Master Wayne.” Alfred’s voice on the intercom, sardonic. That must have been what woke him up. “Are you there, sir, or shall I send up the dogs?”

He turns over on his back, fumbles, hits audio only. “Very funny. I’m here.”

“You have a visitor.”

Bruce sighs. Hides his eyes. “I take it back. I’m not here.”

“I already tried that line, sir. The gentleman was not persuaded. He said something about hearing the particular sound of your heartbeat? I didn’t press.”

Oh god. “Why didn’t you just say it was Kent?”

“I was rather interested to see what sort of mood you were in at this hour of the day.”

“What time is it?”

“Early, I’m afraid. Only half past 8.”

A whole two hours of sleep, he thinks. Fantastic. “Give me five minutes. Ten. Then I’ll be down.”

“Very well.” Alfred’s doing his best English Manor drawl. Never a good sign; it usually means he’s terribly fucking amused. “He’s in the drawing room. Shall I serve him tea? Perhaps a spot of breakfast?”

“Yes, fine. Whatever. I don’t care. I’ll be down.”

He takes a cold shower, Army style. Takes two minutes more under hot trying to shake the echoes of his damnable dream away, of Clark’s mouth on his neck, the beautiful punishing shove of his dick.

“Ah, fuck,” he says to his reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching himself scowl, watching water run from his hair and under his shirt. “This can’t be good.”


End file.
